Saturday, March 23, 2013

THE OVERCOAT by Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol

Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol 1809 - 1852

In the department of - but it is better not to mention the department. There is
nothing more irritable than departments, regiments, courts of justice, and, in a
word, every branch of public service. Each individual attached to them nowadays
thinks all society insulted in his person. Quite recently a complaint was
received from a justice of the peace, in which he plainly demonstrated that all
the imperial institutions were going to the dogs, and that the Czar's sacred
name was being taken in vain; and in proof he appended to the complaint a
romance in which the justice of the peace is made to appear about once every ten
lines, and sometimes in a drunken condition. Therefore, in order to avoid all
unpleasantness, it will be better to describe the department in question only as
a certain department.

So, in a certain department there was a certain official -- not a very high one,
it must be allowed -- short of stature, somewhat pock-marked, red-haired, and
short-sighted, with a bald forehead, wrinkled cheeks, and a complexion of the
kind known as sanguine. The St. Petersburg climate was responsible for this. As
for his official status, he was what is called a perpetual titular councillor,
over which, as is well known, some writers make merry, and crack their jokes,
obeying the praiseworthy custom of attacking those who cannot bite back.

His family name was Bashmatchkin. This name is evidently derived from "bashmak"
(shoe); but when, at what time, and in what manner, is not known. His father and
grandfather, and all the Bashmatchkins, always wore boots, which only had new
heels two or three times a year. His name was Akakiy Akakievitch. It may strike
the reader as rather singular and far-fetched, but he may rest assured that it
was by no means far-fetched, and that the circumstances were such that it would
have been impossible to give him any other.

This is how it came about.

Akakiy Akakievitch was born, if my memory fails me not, in the evening of the
23rd of March. His mother, the wife of a Government official and a very fine
woman, made all due arrangements for having the child baptised. She was lying on
the bed opposite the door; on her right stood the godfather, Ivan Ivanovitch
Eroshkin, a most estimable man, who served as presiding officer of the senate,
while the godmother, Anna Semenovna Byelobrushkova, the wife of an officer of
the quarter, and a woman of rare virtues. They offered the mother her choice of
three names, Mokiya, Sossiya, or that the child should be called after the
martyr Khozdazat. "No," said the good woman, "all those names are poor." In
order to please her they opened the calendar to another place; three more names
appeared, Triphiliy, Dula, and Varakhasiy. "This is a judgment," said the old
woman. "What names! I truly never heard the like. Varada or Varukh might have
been borne, but not Triphiliy and Varakhasiy!" They turned to another page and
found Pavsikakhiy and Vakhtisiy. "Now I see," said the old woman, "that it is
plainly fate. And since such is the case, it will be better to name him after
his father. His father's name was Akakiy, so let his son's be Akakiy too." In
this manner he became Akakiy Akakievitch. They christened the child, whereat he
wept and made a grimace, as though he foresaw that he was to be a titular
councillor.

In this manner did it all come about. We have mentioned it in order that the
reader might see for himself that it was a case of necessity, and that it was
utterly impossible to give him any other name. When and how he entered the
department, and who appointed him, no one could remember. However much the
directors and chiefs of all kinds were changed, he was always to be seen in the
same place, the same attitude, the same occupation; so that it was afterwards
affirmed that he had been born in undress uniform with a bald head. No respect
was shown him in the department. The porter not only did not rise from his seat
when he passed, but never even glanced at him, any more than if a fly had flown
through the reception-room. His superiors treated him in coolly despotic
fashion. Some sub-chief would thrust a paper under his nose without so much as
saying, "Copy," or "Here's a nice interesting affair," or anything else
agreeable, as is customary amongst well-bred officials. And he took it, looking
only at the paper and not observing who handed it to him, or whether he had the
right to do so; simply took it, and set about copying it.

The young officials laughed at and made fun of him, so far as their official wit
permitted; told in his presence various stories concocted about him, and about
his landlady, an old woman of seventy; declared that she beat him; asked when
the wedding was to be; and strewed bits of paper over his head, calling them
snow. But Akakiy Akakievitch answered not a word, any more than if there had
been no one there besides himself. It even had no effect upon his work: amid all
these annoyances he never made a single mistake in a letter. But if the joking
became wholly unbearable, as when they jogged his hand and prevented his
attending to his work, he would exclaim, "Leave me alone! Why do you insult me?"
And there was something strange in the words and the voice in which they were
uttered. There was in it something which moved to pity; so much that one young
man, a new-comer, who, taking pattern by the others, had permitted himself to
make sport of Akakiy, suddenly stopped short, as though all about him had
undergone a transformation, and presented itself in a different aspect. Some
unseen force repelled him from the comrades whose acquaintance he had made, on
the supposition that they were well-bred and polite men. Long afterwards, in his
gayest moments, there recurred to his mind the little official with the bald
forehead, with his heart-rending words, "Leave me alone! Why do you insult me?"
In these moving words, other words resounded --"I am thy brother." And the
young man covered his face with his hand; and many a time afterwards, in the
course of his life, shuddered at seeing how much inhumanity there is in man, how
much savage coarseness is concealed beneath delicate, refined worldliness, and
even, O God! in that man whom the world acknowledges as honourable and noble.

It would be difficult to find another man who lived so entirely for his duties.
It is not enough to say that Akakiy laboured with zeal: no, he laboured with
love. In his copying, he found a varied and agreeable employment. Enjoyment was
written on his face: some letters were even favourites with him; and when he
encountered these, he smiled, winked, and worked with his lips, till it seemed
as though each letter might be read in his face, as his pen traced it. If his
pay had been in proportion to his zeal, he would, perhaps, to his great
surprise, have been made even a councillor of state. But he worked, as his
companions, the wits, put it, like a horse in a mill.

Moreover, it is impossible to say that no attention was paid to him. One
director being a kindly man, and desirous of rewarding him for his long service,
ordered him to be given something more important than mere copying. So he was
ordered to make a report of an already concluded affair to another department:
the duty consisting simply in changing the heading and altering a few words from
the first to the third person. This caused him so much toil that he broke into a
perspiration, rubbed his forehead, and finally said, "No, give me rather
something to copy." After that they let him copy on forever.

Outside this copying, it appeared that nothing existed for him. He gave no
thought to his clothes: his undress uniform was not green, but a sort of rusty-
meal colour. The collar was low, so that his neck, in spite of the fact that it
was not long, seemed inordinately so as it emerged from it, like the necks of
those plaster cats which wag their heads, and are carried about upon the heads
of scores of image sellers. And something was always sticking to his uniform,
either a bit of hay or some trifle. Moreover, he had a peculiar knack, as he
walked along the street, of arriving beneath a window just as all sorts of
rubbish were being flung out of it: hence he always bore about on his hat scraps
of melon rinds and other such articles. Never once in his life did he give heed
to what was going on every day in the street; while it is well known that his
young brother officials train the range of their glances till they can see when
any one's trouser straps come undone upon the opposite sidewalk, which always
brings a malicious smile to their faces. But Akakiy Akakievitch saw in all
things the clean, even strokes of his written lines; and only when a horse
thrust his nose, from some unknown quarter, over his shoulder, and sent a whole
gust of wind down his neck from his nostrils, did he observe that he was not in
the middle of a page, but in the middle of the street.

On reaching home, he sat down at once at the table, supped his cabbage soup up
quickly, and swallowed a bit of beef with onions, never noticing their taste,
and gulping down everything with flies and anything else which the Lord happened
to send at the moment. His stomach filled, he rose from the table, and copied
papers which he had brought home. If there happened to be none, he took copies
for himself, for his own gratification, especially if the document was
noteworthy, not on account of its style, but of its being addressed to some
distinguished person.

Even at the hour when the grey St. Petersburg sky had quite dispersed, and all
the official world had eaten or dined, each as he could, in accordance with the
salary he received and his own fancy; when all were resting from the
departmental jar of pens, running to and fro from their own and other people's
indispensable occupations, and from all the work that an uneasy man makes
willingly for himself, rather than what is necessary; when officials hasten to
dedicate to pleasure the time which is left to them, one bolder than the rest
going to the theatre; another, into the street looking under all the bonnets;
another wasting his evening in compliments to some pretty girl, the star of a
small official circle; another -- and this is the common case of all -- visiting
his comrades on the fourth or third floor, in two small rooms with an ante-room
or kitchen, and some pretensions to fashion, such as a lamp or some other trifle
which has cost many a sacrifice of dinner or pleasure trip; in a word, at the
hour when all officials disperse among the contracted quarters of their friends,
to play whist, as they sip their tea from glasses with a kopek's worth of sugar,
smoke long pipes, relate at times some bits of gossip which a Russian man can
never, under any circumstances, refrain from, and, when there is nothing else to
talk of, repeat eternal anecdotes about the commandant to whom they had sent
word that the tails of the horses on the Falconet Monument had been cut off,
when all strive to divert themselves, Akakiy Akakievitch indulged in no kind of
diversion. No one could ever say that he had seen him at any kind of evening
party. Having written to his heart's content, he lay down to sleep, smiling at
the thought of the coming day -- of what God might send him to copy on the
morrow.

Thus flowed on the peaceful life of the man, who, with a salary of four hundred
rubles, understood how to be content with his lot; and thus it would have
continued to flow on, perhaps, to extreme old age, were it not that there are
various ills strewn along the path of life for titular councillors as well as
for private, actual, court, and every other species of councillor, even for
those who never give any advice or take any themselves.

There exists in St. Petersburg a powerful foe of all who receive a salary of
four hundred rubles a year, or thereabouts. This foe is no other than the
Northern cold, although it is said to be very healthy. At nine o'clock in the
morning, at the very hour when the streets are filled with men bound for the
various official departments, it begins to bestow such powerful and piercing
nips on all noses impartially that the poor officials really do not know what to
do with them. At an hour when the foreheads of even those who occupy exalted
positions ache with the cold, and tears start to their eyes, the poor titular
councillors are sometimes quite unprotected. Their only salvation lies in
traversing as quickly as possible, in their thin little cloaks, five or six
streets, and then warming their feet in the porter's room, and so thawing all
their talents and qualifications for official service, which had become frozen
on the way.

Akakiy Akakievitch had felt for some time that his back and shoulders suffered
with peculiar poignancy, in spite of the fact that he tried to traverse the
distance with all possible speed. He began finally to wonder whether the fault
did not lie in his cloak. He examined it thoroughly at home, and discovered that
in two places, namely, on the back and shoulders, it had become thin as gauze:
the cloth was worn to such a degree that he could see through it, and the lining
had fallen into pieces. You must know that Akakiy Akakievitch's cloak served as
an object of ridicule to the officials: they even refused it the noble name of
cloak, and called it a cape. In fact, it was of singular make: its collar
diminishing year by year, but serving to patch its other parts. The patching did
not exhibit great skill on the part of the tailor, and was, in fact, baggy and
ugly. Seeing how the matter stood, Akakiy Akakievitch decided that it would be
necessary to take the cloak to Petrovitch, the tailor, who lived somewhere on
the fourth floor up a dark stair-case, and who, in spite of his having but one
eye, and pock-marks all over his face, busied himself with considerable success
in repairing the trousers and coats of officials and others; that is to say,
when he was sober and not nursing some other scheme in his head.

It is not necessary to say much about this tailor; but, as it is the custom to
have the character of each personage in a novel clearly defined, there is no
help for it, so here is Petrovitch the tailor. At first he was called only
Grigoriy, and was some gentleman's serf; he commenced calling himself Petrovitch
from the time when he received his free papers, and further began to drink
heavily on all holidays, at first on the great ones, and then on all church
festivities without discrimination, wherever a cross stood in the calendar. On
this point he was faithful to ancestral custom; and when quarrelling with his
wife, he called her a low female and a German. As we have mentioned his wife, it
will be necessary to say a word or two about her. Unfortunately, little is known
of her beyond the fact that Petrovitch has a wife, who wears a cap and a dress;
but cannot lay claim to beauty, at least, no one but the soldiers of the guard
even looked under her cap when they met her.

Ascending the staircase which led to Petrovitch's room -- which staircase was
all soaked with dish-water, and reeked with the smell of spirits which affects
the eyes, and is an inevitable adjunct to all dark stairways in St. Petersburg
houses -- ascending the stairs, Akakiy Akakievitch pondered how much Petrovitch
would ask, and mentally resolved not to give more than two rubles. The door was
open; for the mistress, in cooking some fish, had raised such a smoke in the
kitchen that not even the beetles were visible. Akakiy Akakievitch passed
through the kitchen unperceived, even by the housewife, and at length reached a
room where he beheld Petrovitch seated on a large unpainted table, with his legs
tucked under him like a Turkish pasha. His feet were bare, after the fashion of
tailors who sit at work; and the first thing which caught the eye was his thumb,
with a deformed nail thick and strong as a turtle's shell. About Petrovitch's
neck hung a skein of silk and thread, and upon his knees lay some old garment.
He had been trying unsuccessfully for three minutes to thread his needle, and
was enraged at the darkness and even at the thread, growling in a low voice, "It
won't go through, the barbarian! you pricked me, you rascal !"

Akakiy Akakievitch was vexed at arriving at the precise moment when Petrovitch
was angry; he liked to order something of Petrovitch when the latter was a
little downhearted, or, as his wife expressed it, "when he had settled himself
with brandy, the one-eyed devil!" Under such circumstances, Petrovitch generally
came down in his price very readily, and even bowed and returned thanks.
Afterwards, to be sure, his wife would come, complaining that her husband was
drunk, and so had fixed the price too low; but, if only a ten-kopek piece were
added, then the matter was settled. But now it appeared that Petrovitch was in a
sober condition, and therefore rough, taciturn, and inclined to demand, Satan
only knows what price. Akakiy Akakievitch felt this, and would gladly have beat
a retreat; but he was in for it. Petrovitch screwed up his one eye very intently
at him, and Akakiy Akakievitch involuntarily said: "How do you do, Petrovitch ?"

"I wish you a good morning, sir," said Petrovitch, squinting at Akakiy
Akakievitch's hands, to see what sort of booty he had brought.

"Ah ! I - to you, Petrovitch, this --" It must be known that Akakiy Akakievitch
expressed himself chiefly by prepositions, adverbs, and scraps of phrases which
had no meaning whatever. If the matter was a very difficult one, he had a habit
of never completing his sentences; so that frequently, having begun a phrase
with the words, "This, in fact, is quite --" he forgot to go on, thinking that
he had already finished it.

"What is it?" asked Petrovitch, and with his one eye scanned Akakievitch's whole
uniform from the collar down to the cuffs, the back, the tails and the button-
holes, all of which were well known to him, since they were his own handiwork.
Such is the habit of tailors; it is the first thing they do on meeting one.

"But I, here, this -- Petrovitch -- a cloak, cloth -- here you see, everywhere,
in different places, it is quite strong -- it is a little dusty, and looks old,
but it is new, only here in one place it is a little -- on the back, and here on
one of the shoulders, it is a little worn, yes, here on this shoulder it is a
little -- do you see? that is all. And a little work -"

Petrovitch took the cloak, spread it out, to begin with, on the table, looked
hard at it, shook his head, reached out his hand to the window-sill for his
snuff-box, adorned with the portrait of some general, though what general is
unknown, for the place where the face should have been had been rubbed through
by the finger, and a square bit of paper had been pasted over it. Having taken a
pinch of snuff, Petrovitch held up the cloak, and inspected it against the
light, and again shook his head once more. After which he again lifted the
general-adorned lid with its bit of pasted paper, and having stuffed his nose
with snuff, closed and put away the snuff-box, and said finally, "No, it is
impossible to mend it; it's a wretched garment !"

Akakiy Akakievitch's heart sank at these words.

"Why is it impossible, Petrovitch?" he said, almost in the pleading voice of a
child; "all that ails it is, that it is worn on the shoulders. You must have
some pieces -"

"Yes, patches could be found, patches are easily found," said Petrovitch, "but
there's nothing to sew them to. The thing is completely rotten; if you put a
needle to it - see, it will give way."

"Let it give way, and you can put on another patch at once."

"But there is nothing to put the patches on to; there's no use in strengthening
it; it is too far gone. It's lucky that it's cloth; for, if the wind were to
blow, it would fly away."

"Well, strengthen it again. How will this, in fact -"

"No," said Petrovitch decisively, "there is nothing to be done with it. It's a
thoroughly bad job. You'd better, when the cold winter weather comes on, make
yourself some gaiters out of it, because stockings are not warm. The Germans
invented them in order to make more money." Petrovitch loved, on all occasions,
to have a fling at the Germans. "But it is plain you must have a new cloak."

At the word "new," all grew dark before Akakiy Akakievitch's eyes, and
everything in the room began to whirl round. The only thing he saw clearly was
the general with the paper face on the lid of Petrovitch's snuff-box. "A new
one?" said he, as if still in a dream: "why, I have no money for that."

"Yes, a new one," said Petrovitch, with barbarous composure.

"Well, if it came to a new one, how would it ?"

"You mean how much would it cost ?"

"Yes."

"Well, you would have to lay out a hundred and fifty or more," said Petrovitch,
and pursed up his lips significantly. He liked to produce powerful effects,
liked to stun utterly and suddenly, and then to glance sideways to see what face
the stunned person would put on the matter.

"A hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak!" shrieked poor Akakiy Akakievitch,
perhaps for the first time in his life, for his voice had always been
distinguished for softness.

"Yes, sir," said Petrovitch, "for any kind of cloak. If you have a marten fur on
the collar, or a silk-lined hood, it will mount up to two hundred."

"Petrovitch, please," said Akakiy Akakievitch in a beseeching tone, not hearing,
and not trying to hear, Petrovitch's words, and disregarding all his "effects,"
"some repairs, in order that it may wear yet a little longer."

"No, it would only be a waste of time and money," said Petrovitch; and Akakiy
Akakievitch went away after these words, utterly discouraged. But Petrovitch
stood for some time after his departure, with significantly compressed lips, and
without betaking himself to his work, satisfied that he would not be dropped,
and an artistic tailor employed.

Akakiy Akakievitch went out into the street as if in a dream. "Such an affair!"
he said to himself: "I did not think it had come to --" and then after a pause,
he added, "Well, so it is! see what it has come to at last! and I never imagined
that it was so!" Then followed a long silence, after which he exclaimed, "Well,
so it is! see what already -- nothing unexpected that -- it would be nothing --
what a strange circumstance!" So saying, instead of going home, he went in
exactly the opposite direction without himself suspecting it. On the way, a
chimney-sweep bumped up against him, and blackened his shoulder, and a whole
hatful of rubbish landed on him from the top of a house which was building. He
did not notice it; and only when he ran against a watchman, who, having planted
his halberd beside him, was shaking some snuff from his box into his horny hand,
did he recover himself a little, and that because the watchman said, "Why are
you poking yourself into a man's very face? Haven't you the pavement?" This
caused him to look about him, and turn towards home.

There only, he finally began to collect his thoughts, and to survey his position
in its clear and actual light, and to argue with himself, sensibly and frankly,
as with a reasonable friend with whom one can discuss private and personal
matters. "No," said Akakiy Akakievitch, "it is impossible to reason with
Petrovitch now; he is that -- evidently his wife has been beating him. I'd
better go to him on Sunday morning; after Saturday night he will be a little
cross-eyed and sleepy, for he will want to get drunk, and his wife won't give
him any money; and at such a time, a ten-kopek piece in his hand will - he will
become more fit to reason with, and then the cloak, and that --" Thus argued
Akakiy Akakievitch with himself, regained his courage, and waited until the
first Sunday, when, seeing from afar that Petrovitch's wife had left the house,
he went straight to him.

Petrovitch's eye was, indeed, very much askew after Saturday: his head drooped,
and he was very sleepy; but for all that, as soon as he knew what it was a
question of, it seemed as though Satan jogged his memory. "Impossible," said he:
"please to order a new one." Thereupon Akakiy Akakievitch handed over the ten-
kopek piece. "Thank you, sir; I will drink your good health," said Petrovitch:
"but as for the cloak, don't trouble yourself about it; it is good for nothing.
I will make you a capital new one, so let us settle about it now."

Akakiy Akakievitch was still for mending it; but Petrovitch would not hear of
it, and said, "I shall certainly have to make you a new one, and you may depend
upon it that I shall do my best. It may even be, as the fashion goes, that the
collar can be fastened by silver hooks under a flap."

Then Akakiy Akakievitch saw that it was impossible to get along without a new
cloak, and his spirit sank utterly. How, in fact, was it to be done? Where was
the money to come from? He might, to be sure, depend, in part, upon his present
at Christmas; but that money had long been allotted beforehand. He must have
some new trousers, and pay a debt of long standing to the shoemaker for putting
new tops to his old boots, and he must order three shirts from the seamstress,
and a couple of pieces of linen. In short, all his money must be spent; and even
if the director should be so kind as to order him to receive forty-five rubles
instead of forty, or even fifty, it would be a mere nothing, a mere drop in the
ocean towards the funds necessary for a cloak: although he knew that Petrovitch
was often wrong-headed enough to blurt out some outrageous price, so that even
his own wife could not refrain from exclaiming, "Have you lost your senses, you
fool?" At one time he would not work at any price, and now it was quite likely
that he had named a higher sum than the cloak would cost.

But although he knew that Petrovitch would undertake to make a cloak for eighty
rubles, still, where was he to get the eighty rubles from? He might possibly
manage half, yes, half might be procured, but where was the other half to come
from? But the reader must first be told where the first half came from. Akakiy
Akakievitch had a habit of putting, for every ruble he spent, a groschen into a
small box, fastened with a lock and key, and with a slit in the top for the
reception of money. At the end of every half-year he counted over the heap of
coppers, and changed it for silver. This he had done for a long time, and in the
course of years, the sum had mounted up to over forty rubles. Thus he had one
half on hand; but where was he to find the other half? where was he to get
another forty rubles from? Akakiy Akakievitch thought and thought, and decided
that it would be necessary to curtail his ordinary expenses, for the space of
one year at least, to dispense with tea in the evening; to burn no candles, and,
if there was anything which he must do, to go into his landlady's room, and work
by her light. When he went into the street, he must walk as lightly as he could,
and as cautiously, upon the stones, almost upon tiptoe, in order not to wear his
heels down in too short a time; he must give the laundress as little to wash as
possible; and, in order not to wear out his clothes, he must take them off, as
soon as he got home, and wear only his cotton dressing-gown, which had been long
and carefully saved.

To tell the truth, it was a little hard for him at first to accustom himself to
these deprivations; but he got used to them at length, after a fashion, and all
went smoothly. He even got used to being hungry in the evening, but he made up
for it by treating himself, so to say, in spirit, by bearing ever in mind the
idea of his future cloak. From that time forth his existence seemed to become,
in some way, fuller, as if he were married, or as if some other man lived in
him, as if, in fact, he were not alone, and some pleasant friend had consented
to travel along life's path with him, the friend being no other than the cloak,
with thick wadding and a strong lining incapable of wearing out. He became more
lively, and even his character grew firmer, like that of a man who has made up
his mind, and set himself a goal. From his face and gait, doubt and indecision,
all hesitating and wavering traits disappeared of themselves. Fire gleamed in
his eyes, and occasionally the boldest and most daring ideas flitted through his
mind; why not, for instance, have marten fur on the collar? The thought of this
almost made him absent-minded. Once, in copying a letter, he nearly made a
mistake, so that he exclaimed almost aloud, "Ugh!" and crossed himself. Once, in
the course of every month, he had a conference with Petrovitch on the subject of
the cloak, where it would be better to buy the cloth, and the colour, and the
price. He always returned home satisfied, though troubled, reflecting that the
time would come at last when it could all be bought, and then the cloak made.

The affair progressed more briskly than he had expected. Far beyond all his
hopes, the director awarded neither forty nor forty-five rubles for Akakiy
Akakievitch's share, but sixty. Whether he suspected that Akakiy Akakievitch
needed a cloak, or whether it was merely chance, at all events, twenty extra
rubles were by this means provided. This circumstance hastened matters. Two or
three months more of hunger and Akakiy Akakievitch had accumulated about eighty
rubles. His heart, generally so quiet, began to throb. On the first possible
day, he went shopping in company with Petrovitch. They bought some very good
cloth, and at a reasonable rate too, for they had been considering the matter
for six months, and rarely let a month pass without their visiting the shops to
inquire prices. Petrovitch himself said that no better cloth could be had. For
lining, they selected a cotton stuff, but so firm and thick that Petrovitch
declared it to be better than silk, and even prettier and more glossy. They did
not buy the marten fur, because it was, in fact, dear, but in its stead, they
picked out the very best of cat-skin which could be found in the shop, and which
might, indeed, be taken for marten at a distance.

Petrovitch worked at the cloak two whole weeks, for there was a great deal of
quilting: otherwise it would have been finished sooner. He charged twelve rubles
for the job, it could not possibly have been done for less. It was all sewed
with silk, in small, double seams; and Petrovitch went over each seam afterwards
with his own teeth, stamping in various patterns.

It was -- it is difficult to say precisely on what day, but probably the most
glorious one in Akakiy Akakievitch's life, when Petrovitch at length brought
home the cloak. He brought it in the morning, before the hour when it was
necessary to start for the department. Never did a cloak arrive so exactly in
the nick of time; for the severe cold had set in, and it seemed to threaten to
increase. Petrovitch brought the cloak himself as befits a good tailor. On his
countenance was a significant expression, such as Akakiy Akakievitch had never
beheld there. He seemed fully sensible that he had done no small deed, and
crossed a gulf separating tailors who only put in linings, and execute repairs,
from those who make new things. He took the cloak out of the pocket handkerchief
in which he had brought it. The handkerchief was fresh from the laundress, and
he put it in his pocket for use. Taking out the cloak, he gazed proudly at it,
held it up with both hands, and flung it skilfully over the shoulders of Akakiy
Akakievitch. Then he pulled it and fitted it down behind with his hand, and he
draped it around Akakiy Akakievitch without buttoning it. Akakiy Akakievitch,
like an experienced man, wished to try the sleeves. Petrovitch helped him on
with them, and it turned out that the sleeves were satisfactory also. In short,
the cloak appeared to be perfect, and most seasonable. Petrovitch did not
neglect to observe that it was only because he lived in a narrow street, and had
no signboard, and had known Akakiy Akakievitch so long, that he had made it so
cheaply; but that if he had been in business on the Nevsky Prospect, he would
have charged seventy-five rubles for the making alone. Akakiy Akakievitch did
not care to argue this point with Petrovitch. He paid him, thanked him, and set
out at once in his new cloak for the department. Petrovitch followed him, and,
pausing in the street, gazed long at the cloak in the distance, after which he
went to one side expressly to run through a crooked alley, and emerge again into
the street beyond to gaze once more upon the cloak from another point, namely,
directly in front.
Meantime Akakiy Akakievitch went on in holiday mood. He was conscious every
second of the time that he had a new cloak on his shoulders; and several times
he laughed with internal satisfaction. In fact, there were two advantages, one
was its warmth, the other its beauty. He saw nothing of the road, but suddenly
found himself at the department. He took off his cloak in the ante-room, looked
it over carefully, and confided it to the especial care of the attendant. It is
impossible to say precisely how it was that every one in the department knew at
once that Akakiy Akakievitch had a new cloak, and that the "cape" no longer
existed. All rushed at the same moment into the ante-room to inspect it. They
congratulated him and said pleasant things to him, so that he began at first to
smile and then to grow ashamed. When all surrounded him, and said that the new
cloak must be "christened," and that he must give a whole evening at least to
this, Akakiy Akakievitch lost his head completely, and did not know where he
stood, what to answer, or how to get out of it. He stood blushing all over for
several minutes, and was on the point of assuring them with great simplicity
that it was not a new cloak, that it was so and so, that it was in fact the old
"cape."

At length one of the officials, a sub-chief probably, in order to show that he
was not at all proud, and on good terms with his inferiors, said, "So be it,
only I will give the party instead of Akakiy Akakievitch; I invite you all to
tea with me to-night; it happens quite a propos, as it is my name-day." The
officials naturally at once offered the sub-chief their congratulations and
accepted the invitations with pleasure. Akakiy Akakievitch would have declined,
but all declared that it was discourteous, that it was simply a sin and a shame,
and that he could not possibly refuse. Besides, the notion became pleasant to
him when he recollected that he should thereby have a chance of wearing his new
cloak in the evening also.

That whole day was truly a most triumphant festival day for Akakiy Akakievitch.
He returned home in the most happy frame of mind, took off his cloak, and hung
it carefully on the wall, admiring afresh the cloth and the lining. Then he
brought out his old, worn-out cloak, for comparison. He looked at it and
laughed, so vast was the difference. And long after dinner he laughed again when
the condition of the "cape" recurred to his mind. He dined cheerfully, and after
dinner wrote nothing, but took his ease for a while on the bed, until it got
dark. Then he dressed himself leisurely, put on his cloak, and stepped out into
the street. Where the host lived, unfortunately we cannot say: our memory begins
to fail us badly; and the houses and streets in St. Petersburg have become so
mixed up in our head that it is very difficult to get anything out of it again
in proper form. This much is certain, that the official lived in the best part
of the city; and therefore it must have been anything but near to Akakiy
Akakievitch's residence. Akakiy Akakievitch was first obliged to traverse a kind
of wilderness of deserted, dimly-lighted streets; but in proportion as he
approached the official's quarter of the city, the streets became more lively,
more populous, and more brilliantly illuminated. Pedestrians began to appear;
handsomely dressed ladies were more frequently encountered; the men had otter
skin collars to their coats; peasant waggoners, with their grate-like sledges
stuck over with brass-headed nails, became rarer; whilst on the other hand, more
and more drivers in red velvet caps, lacquered sledges and bear-skin coats began
to appear, and carriages with rich hammer-cloths flew swiftly through the
streets, their wheels scrunching the snow. Akakiy Akakievitch gazed upon all
this as upon a novel sight. He had not been in the streets during the evening
for years. He halted out of curiosity before a shop-window to look at a picture
representing a handsome woman, who had thrown off her shoe, thereby baring her
whole foot in a very pretty way; whilst behind her the head of a man with
whiskers and a handsome moustache peeped through the doorway of another room.
Akakiy Akakievitch shook his head and laughed, and then went on his way. Why did
he laugh? Either because he had met with a thing utterly unknown, but for which
every one cherishes, nevertheless, some sort of feeling; or else he thought,
like many officials, as follows: "Well, those French! What is to be said? If
they do go in anything of that sort, why -" But possibly he did not think at
all.

Akakiy Akakievitch at length reached the house in which the sub-chief lodged.
The sub-chief lived in fine style: the staircase was lit by a lamp; his
apartment being on the second floor. On entering the vestibule, Akakiy
Akakievitch beheld a whole row of goloshes on the floor. Among them, in the
centre of the room, stood a samovar or tea-urn, humming and emitting clouds of
steam. On the walls hung all sorts of coats and cloaks, among which there were
even some with beaver collars or velvet facings. Beyond, the buzz of
conversation was audible, and became clear and loud when the servant came out
with a trayful of empty glasses, cream-jugs, and sugar-bowls. It was evident
that the officials had arrived long before, and had already finished their first
glass of tea.

Akakiy Akakievitch, having hung up his own cloak, entered the inner room. Before
him all at once appeared lights, officials, pipes, and card-tables; and he was
bewildered by the sound of rapid conversation rising from all the tables, and
the noise of moving chairs. He halted very awkwardly in the middle of the room,
wondering what he ought to do. But they had seen him. They received him with a
shout, and all thronged at once into the ante-room, and there took another look
at his cloak. Akakiy Akakievitch, although somewhat confused, was frank-hearted,
and could not refrain from rejoicing when he saw how they praised his cloak.
Then, of course, they all dropped him and his cloak, and returned, as was
proper, to the tables set out for whist.

All this, the noise, the talk, and the throng of people was rather overwhelming
to Akakiy Akakievitch. He simply did not know where he stood, or where to put
his hands, his feet, and his whole body. Finally he sat down by the players,
looked at the cards, gazed at the face of one and another, and after a while
began to gape, and to feel that it was wearisome, the more so as the hour was
already long past when he usually went to bed. He wanted to take leave of the
host; but they would not let him go, saying that he must not fail to drink a
glass of champagne in honour of his new garment. In the course of an hour,
supper, consisting of vegetable salad, cold veal, pastry, confectioner's pies,
and champagne, was served. They made Akakiy Akakievitch drink two glasses of
champagne, after which he felt things grow livelier.
Still, he could not forget that it was twelve o'clock, and that he should have
been at home long ago. In order that the host might not think of some excuse for
detaining him, he stole out of the room quickly, sought out, in the ante-room,
his cloak, which, to his sorrow, he found lying on the floor, brushed it, picked
off every speck upon it, put it on his shoulders, and descended the stairs to
the street.

In the street all was still bright. Some petty shops, those permanent clubs of
servants and all sorts of folk, were open. Others were shut, but, nevertheless,
showed a streak of light the whole length of the door-crack, indicating that
they were not yet free of company, and that probably some domestics, male and
female, were finishing their stories and conversations whilst leaving their
masters in complete ignorance as to their whereabouts. Akakiy Akakievitch went
on in a happy frame of mind: he even started to run, without knowing why, after
some lady, who flew past like a flash of lightning. But he stopped short, and
went on very quietly as before, wondering why he had quickened his pace. Soon
there spread before him those deserted streets, which are not cheerful in the
daytime, to say nothing of the evening. Now they were even more dim and lonely:
the lanterns began to grow rarer, oil, evidently, had been less liberally
supplied. Then came wooden houses and fences: not a soul anywhere; only the snow
sparkled in the streets, and mournfully veiled the low-roofed cabins with their
closed shutters. He approached the spot where the street crossed a vast square
with houses barely visible on its farther side, a square which seemed a fearful
desert.

Afar, a tiny spark glimmered from some watchman's box, which seemed to stand on
the edge of the world. Akakiy Akakievitch's cheerfulness diminished at this
point in a marked degree. He entered the square, not without an involuntary
sensation of fear, as though his heart warned him of some evil. He glanced back
and on both sides, it was like a sea about him. "No, it is better not to look,"
he thought, and went on, closing his eyes. When he opened them, to see whether
he was near the end of the square, he suddenly beheld, standing just before his
very nose, some bearded individuals of precisely what sort he could not make
out. All grew dark before his eyes, and his heart throbbed.

"But, of course, the cloak is mine!" said one of them in a loud voice, seizing
hold of his collar. Akakiy Akakievitch was about to shout "watch," when the
second man thrust a fist, about the size of a man's head, into his mouth,
muttering, "Now scream !"

Akakiy Akakievitch felt them strip off his cloak and give him a push with a
knee: he fell headlong upon the snow, and felt no more. In a few minutes he
recovered consciousness and rose to his feet; but no one was there. He felt that
it was cold in the square, and that his cloak was gone; he began to shout, but
his voice did not appear to reach to the outskirts of the square. In despair,
but without ceasing to shout, he started at a run across the square, straight
towards the watchbox, beside which stood the watchman, leaning on his halberd,
and apparently curious to know what kind of a customer was running towards him
and shouting. Akakiy Akakievitch ran up to him, and began in a sobbing voice to
shout that he was asleep, and attended to nothing, and did not see when a man
was robbed. The watchman replied that he had seen two men stop him in the middle
of the square, but supposed that they were friends of his; and that, instead of
scolding vainly, he had better go to the police on the morrow, so that they
might make a search for whoever had stolen the cloak.

Akakiy Akakievitch ran home in complete disorder; his hair, which grew very
thinly upon his temples and the back of his head, wholly disordered; his body,
arms, and legs covered with snow. The old woman, who was mistress of his
lodgings, on hearing a terrible knocking, sprang hastily from her bed, and, with
only one shoe on, ran to open the door, pressing the sleeve of her chemise to
her bosom out of modesty; but when she had opened it, she fell back on beholding
Akakiy Akakievitch in such a state. When he told her about the affair, she
clasped her hands, and said that he must go straight to the district chief of
police, for his subordinate would turn up his nose, promise well, and drop the
matter there. The very best thing to do, therefore, would be to go to the
district chief, whom she knew, because Finnish Anna, her former cook, was now
nurse at his house. She often saw him passing the house; and he was at church
every Sunday, praying, but at the same time gazing cheerfully at everybody; so
that he must be a good man, judging from all appearances. Having listened to
this opinion, Akakiy Akakievitch betook himself sadly to his room; and how he
spent the night there any one who can put himself in another's place may readily
imagine.

Early in the morning, he presented himself at the district chief's; but was told
that this official was asleep. He went again at ten and was again informed that
he was asleep; at eleven, and they said: "The superintendent is not at home;" at
dinner time, and the clerks in the ante-room would not admit him on any terms,
and insisted upon knowing his business. So that at last, for once in his life,
Akakiy Akakievitch felt an inclination to show some spirit, and said curtly that
he must see the chief in person; that they ought not to presume to refuse him
entrance; that he came from the department of justice, and that when he
complained of them, they would see.
The clerks dared make no reply to this, and one of them went to call the chief,
who listened to the strange story of the theft of the coat. Instead of directing
his attention to the principal points of the matter, he began to question Akakiy
Akakievitch: Why was he going home so late? Was he in the habit of doing so, or
had he been to some disorderly house? So that Akakiy Akakievitch got thoroughly
confused, and left him without knowing whether the affair of his cloak was in
proper train or not.

All that day, for the first time in his life, he never went near the department.
The next day he made his appearance, very pale, and in his old cape, which had
become even more shabby. The news of the robbery of the cloak touched many;
although there were some officials present who never lost an opportunity, even
such a one as the present, of ridiculing Akakiy Akakievitch. They decided to
make a collection for him on the spot, but the officials had already spent a
great deal in subscribing for the director's portrait, and for some book, at the
suggestion of the head of that division, who was a friend of the author; and so
the sum was trifling.

One of them, moved by pity, resolved to help Akakiy Akakievitch with some good
advice at least, and told him that he ought not to go to the police, for
although it might happen that a police-officer, wishing to win the approval of
his superiors, might hunt up the cloak by some means, still his cloak would
remain in the possession of the police if he did not offer legal proof that it
belonged to him. The best thing for him, therefore, would be to apply to a
certain prominent personage; since this prominent personage, by entering into
relations with the proper persons, could greatly expedite the matter.

As there was nothing else to be done, Akakiy Akakievitch decided to go to the
prominent personage. What was the exact official position of the prominent
personage remains unknown to this day. The reader must know that the prominent
personage had but recently become a prominent personage, having up to that time
been only an insignificant person. Moreover, his present position was not
considered prominent in comparison with others still more so. But there is
always a circle of people to whom what is insignificant in the eyes of others,
is important enough. Moreover, he strove to increase his importance by sundry
devices; for instance, he managed to have the inferior officials meet him on the
staircase when he entered upon his service; no one was to presume to come
directly to him, but the strictest etiquette must be observed; the collegiate
recorder must make a report to the government secretary, the government
secretary to the titular councillor, or whatever other man was proper, and all
business must come before him in this manner. In Holy Russia all is thus
contaminated with the love of imitation; every man imitates and copies his
superior. They even say that a certain titular councillor, when promoted to the
head of some small separate room, immediately partitioned off a private room for
himself, called it the audience chamber, and posted at the door a lackey with
red collar and braid, who grasped the handle of the door and opened to all
comers; though the audience chamber could hardly hold an ordinary writing-table.

The manners and customs of the prominent personage were grand and imposing, but
rather exaggerated. The main foundation of his system was strictness.
"Strictness, strictness, and always strictness!" he generally said; and at the
last word he looked significantly into the face of the person to whom he spoke.
But there was no necessity for this, for the half-score of subordinates who
formed the entire force of the office were properly afraid; on catching sight of
him afar off they left their work and waited, drawn up in line, until he had
passed through the room. His ordinary converse with his inferiors smacked of
sternness, and consisted chiefly of three phrases: "How dare you ? " "Do you know
whom you are speaking to ?" "Do you realise who stands before you ?"

Otherwise he was a very kind-hearted man, good to his comrades, and ready to
oblige; but the rank of general threw him completely off his balance. On
receiving any one of that rank, he became confused, lost his way, as it were,
and never knew what to do. If he chanced to be amongst his equals he was still a
very nice kind of man, a very good fellow in many respects, and not stupid; but
the very moment that he found himself in the society of people but one rank
lower than himself he became silent; and his situation aroused sympathy, the
more so as he felt himself that he might have been making an incomparably better
use of his time. In his eyes there was sometimes visible a desire to join some
interesting conversation or group; but he was kept back by the thought, "Would
it not be a very great condescension on his part ? Would it not be familiar ? and
would he not thereby lose his importance ?" And in consequence of such
reflections he always remained in the same dumb state, uttering from time to
time a few monosyllabic sounds, and thereby earning the name of the most
wearisome of men.

To this prominent personage Akakiy Akakievitch presented himself, and this at
the most unfavourable time for himself though opportune for the prominent
personage. The prominent personage was in his cabinet conversing gaily with an
old acquaintance and companion of his childhood whom he had not seen for several
years and who had just arrived when it was announced to him that a person named
Bashmatchkin had come. He asked abruptly, "Who is he ?" -"Some official," he
was informed. "Ah, he can wait! this is no time for him to call," said the
important man.

It must be remarked here that the important man lied outrageously: he had said
all he had to say to his friend long before; and the conversation had been
interspersed for some time with very long pauses, during which they merely
slapped each other on the leg, and said, "You think so, Ivan Abramovitch!" "Just
so, Stepan Varlamitch!" Nevertheless, he ordered that the official should be
kept waiting, in order to show his friend, a man who had not been in the service
for a long time, but had lived at home in the country, how long officials had to
wait in his ante-room.

At length, having talked himself completely out, and more than that, having had
his fill of pauses, and smoked a cigar in a very comfortable arm-chair with
reclining back, he suddenly seemed to recollect, and said to the secretary, who
stood by the door with papers of reports, "So it seems that there is a
tchinovnik waiting to see me. Tell him that he may come in." On perceiving
Akakiy Akakievitch's modest mien and his worn undress uniform, he turned
abruptly to him and said, "What do you want ?" in a curt hard voice, which he had
practised in his room in private, and before the looking-glass, for a whole week
before being raised to his present rank.

Akakiy Akakievitch, who was already imbued with a due amount of fear, became
somewhat confused: and as well as his tongue would permit, explained, with a
rather more frequent addition than usual of the word "that," that his cloak was
quite new, and had been stolen in the most inhuman manner; that he had applied
to him in order that he might, in some way, by his intermediation -- that he
might enter into correspondence with the chief of police, and find the cloak.

For some inexplicable reason this conduct seemed familiar to the prominent
personage. "What, my dear sir!" he said abruptly, "are you not acquainted with
etiquette? Where have you come from? Don't you know how such matters are
managed? You should first have entered a complaint about this at the court
below: it would have gone to the head of the department, then to the chief of
the division, then it would have been handed over to the secretary, and the
secretary would have given it to me."

"But, your excellency," said Akakiy Akakievitch, trying to collect his small
handful of wits, and conscious at the same time that he was perspiring terribly,
"I, your excellency, presumed to trouble you because secretaries -- are an
untrustworthy race."

"What, what, what !" said the important personage. "Where did you get such
courage ? Where did you get such ideas ? What impudence towards their chiefs and
superiors has spread among the young generation!" The prominent personage
apparently had not observed that Akakiy Akakievitch was already in the
neighbourhood of fifty. If he could be called a young man, it must have been in
comparison with some one who was twenty. "Do you know to whom you speak ? Do you
realise who stands before you ? Do you realise it ? do you realise it ? I ask you !"
Then he stamped his foot and raised his voice to such a pitch that it would have
frightened even a different man from Akakiy Akakievitch.

Akakiy Akakievitch's senses failed him; he staggered, trembled in every limb,
and, if the porters had not run to support him, would have fallen to the floor.
They carried him out insensible. But the prominent personage, gratified that the
effect should have surpassed his expectations, and quite intoxicated with the
thought that his word could even deprive a man of his senses, glanced sideways
at his friend in order to see how he looked upon this, and perceived, not
without satisfaction, that his friend was in a most uneasy frame of mind, and
even beginning, on his part, to feel a trifle frightened.

Akakiy Akakievitch could not remember how he descended the stairs and got into
the street. He felt neither his hands nor feet. Never in his life had he been so
rated by any high official, let alone a strange one. He went staggering on
through the snow-storm, which was blowing in the streets, with his mouth wide
open; the wind, in St. Petersburg fashion, darted upon him from all quarters,
and down every cross-street. In a twinkling it had blown a quinsy into his
throat, and he reached home unable to utter a word. His throat was swollen, and
he lay down on his bed. So powerful is sometimes a good scolding !

The next day a violent fever showed itself. Thanks to the generous assistance of
the St. Petersburg climate, the malady progressed more rapidly than could have
been expected: and when the doctor arrived, he found, on feeling the sick man's
pulse, that there was nothing to be done, except to prescribe a fomentation, so
that the patient might not be left entirely without the beneficent aid of
medicine; but at the same time, he predicted his end in thirty-six hours. After
this he turned to the landlady, and said, "And as for you, don't waste your time
on him: order his pine coffin now, for an oak one will be too expensive for
him." Did Akakiy Akakievitch hear these fatal words? and if he heard them, did
they produce any overwhelming effect upon him? Did he lament the bitterness of
his life? -- We know not, for he continued in a delirious condition. Visions
incessantly appeared to him, each stranger than the other. Now he saw
Petrovitch, and ordered him to make a cloak, with some traps for robbers, who
seemed to him to be always under the bed; and cried every moment to the landlady
to pull one of them from under his coverlet. Then he inquired why his old mantle
hung before him when he had a new cloak. Next he fancied that he was standing
before the prominent person, listening to a thorough setting-down, and saying,
"Forgive me, your excellency !" but at last he began to curse, uttering the most
horrible words, so that his aged landlady crossed herself, never in her life
having heard anything of the kind from him, the more so as those words followed
directly after the words "your excellency." Later on he talked utter nonsense,
of which nothing could be made: all that was evident being, that his incoherent
words and thoughts hovered ever about one thing, his cloak.

At length poor Akakiy Akakievitch breathed his last. They sealed up neither his
room nor his effects, because, in the first place, there were no heirs, and, in
the second, there was very little to inherit beyond a bundle of goose-quills, a
quire of white official paper, three pairs of socks, two or three buttons which
had burst off his trousers, and the mantle already known to the reader. To whom
all this fell, God knows. I confess that the person who told me this tale took
no interest in the matter. They carried Akakiy Akakievitch out and buried him.

And St. Petersburg was left without Akakiy Akakievitch, as though he had never
lived there. A being disappeared who was protected by none, dear to none,
interesting to none, and who never even attracted to himself the attention of
those students of human nature who omit no opportunity of thrusting a pin
through a common fly, and examining it under the microscope. A being who bore
meekly the jibes of the department, and went to his grave without having done
one unusual deed, but to whom, nevertheless, at the close of his life appeared a
bright visitant in the form of a cloak, which momentarily cheered his poor life,
and upon whom, thereafter, an intolerable misfortune descended, just as it
descends upon the mighty of this world !

Several days after his death, the porter was sent from the department to his
lodgings, with an order for him to present himself there immediately; the chief
commanding it. But the porter had to return unsuccessful, with the answer that
he could not come; and to the question, "Why ?" replied, "Well, because he is
dead! he was buried four days ago." In this manner did they hear of Akakiy
Akakievitch's death at the department, and the next day a new official sat in
his place, with a handwriting by no means so upright, but more inclined and
slanting.

But who could have imagined that this was not really the end of Akakiy
Akakievitch, that he was destined to raise a commotion after death, as if in
compensation for his utterly insignificant life? But so it happened, and our
poor story unexpectedly gains a fantastic ending.

A rumour suddenly spread through St. Petersburg that a dead man had taken to
appearing on the Kalinkin Bridge and its vicinity at night in the form of a
tchinovnik seeking a stolen cloak, and that, under the pretext of its being the
stolen cloak, he dragged, without regard to rank or calling, every one's cloak
from his shoulders, be it cat-skin, beaver, fox, bear, sable; in a word, every
sort of fur and skin which men adopted for their covering. One of the department
officials saw the dead man with his own eyes and immediately recognised in him
Akakiy Akakievitch. This, however, inspired him with such terror that he ran off
with all his might, and therefore did not scan the dead man closely, but only
saw how the latter threatened him from afar with his finger. Constant complaints
poured in from all quarters that the backs and shoulders, not only of titular
but even of court councillors, were exposed to the danger of a cold on account
of the frequent dragging off of their cloaks.

Arrangements were made by the police to catch the corpse, alive or dead, at any
cost, and punish him as an example to others in the most severe manner. In this
they nearly succeeded; for a watchman, on guard in Kirushkin Alley, caught the
corpse by the collar on the very scene of his evil deeds, when attempting to
pull off the frieze coat of a retired musician. Having seized him by the collar,
he summoned, with a shout, two of his comrades, whom he enjoined to hold him
fast while he himself felt for a moment in his boot, in order to draw out his
snuff-box and refresh his frozen nose. But the snuff was of a sort which even a
corpse could not endure. The watchman having closed his right nostril with his
finger, had no sooner succeeded in holding half a handful up to the left than
the corpse sneezed so violently that he completely filled the eyes of all three.
While they raised their hands to wipe them, the dead man vanished completely, so
that they positively did not know whether they had actually had him in their
grip at all. Thereafter the watchmen conceived such a terror of dead men that
they were afraid even to seize the living, and only screamed from a distance,
"Hey, there ! go your way !" So the dead tchinovnik began to appear even beyond
the Kalinkin Bridge, causing no little terror to all timid people.

But we have totally neglected that certain prominent personage who may really be
considered as the cause of the fantastic turn taken by this true history. First
of all, justice compels us to say that after the departure of poor, annihilated
Akakiy Akakievitch he felt something like remorse. Suffering was unpleasant to
him, for his heart was accessible to many good impulses, in spite of the fact
that his rank often prevented his showing his true self. As soon as his friend
had left his cabinet, he began to think about poor Akakiy Akakievitch. And from
that day forth, poor Akakiy Akakievitch, who could not bear up under an official
reprimand, recurred to his mind almost every day. The thought troubled him to
such an extent that a week later he even resolved to send an official to him, to
learn whether he really could assist him; and when it was reported to him that
Akakiy Akakievitch had died suddenly of fever, he was startled, hearkened to the
reproaches of his conscience, and was out of sorts for the whole day.

Wishing to divert his mind in some way, and drive away the disagreeable
impression, he set out that evening for one of his friends' houses, where he
found quite a large party assembled. What was better, nearly every one was of
the same rank as himself, so that he need not feel in the least constrained.
This had a marvellous effect upon his mental state. He grew expansive, made
himself agreeable in conversation, in short, he passed a delightful evening.
After supper he drank a couple of glasses of champagne -- not a bad recipe for
cheerfulness, as every one knows. The champagne inclined him to various
adventures; and he determined not to return home, but to go and see a certain
well-known lady of German extraction, Karolina Ivanovna, a lady, it appears,
with whom he was on a very friendly footing.

It must be mentioned that the prominent personage was no longer a young man, but
a good husband and respected father of a family. Two sons, one of whom was
already in the service, and a good-looking, sixteen-year-old daughter, with a
rather retrousse but pretty little nose, came every morning to kiss his hand and
say, "Bonjour, papa." His wife, a still fresh and good-looking woman, first gave
him her hand to kiss, and then, reversing the procedure, kissed his. But the
prominent personage, though perfectly satisfied in his domestic relations,
considered it stylish to have a friend in another quarter of the city. This
friend was scarcely prettier or younger than his wife; but there are such
puzzles in the world, and it is not our place to judge them. So the important
personage descended the stairs, stepped into his sledge, said to the coachman,
"To Karolina Ivanovna's," and, wrapping himself luxuriously in his warm cloak,
found himself in that delightful frame of mind than which a Russian can conceive
no better, namely, when you think of nothing yourself, yet when the thoughts
creep into your mind of their own accord, each more agreeable than the other,
giving you no trouble either to drive them away or seek them. Fully satisfied,
he recalled all the gay features of the evening just passed, and all the mots
which had made the little circle laugh. Many of them he repeated in a low voice,
and found them quite as funny as before; so it is not surprising that he should
laugh heartily at them. Occasionally, however, he was interrupted by gusts of
wind, which, coming suddenly, God knows whence or why, cut his face, drove
masses of snow into it, filled out his cloak-collar like a sail, or suddenly
blew it over his head with supernatural force, and thus caused him constant
trouble to disentangle himself.

Suddenly the important personage felt some one clutch him firmly by the collar.
Turning round, he perceived a man of short stature, in an old, worn uniform, and
recognised, not without terror, Akakiy Akakievitch. The official's face was
white as snow, and looked just like a corpse's. But the horror of the important
personage transcended all bounds when he saw the dead man's mouth open, and,
with a terrible odour of the grave, gave vent to the following remarks: "Ah,
here you are at last! I have you, that -- by the collar! I need your cloak; you
took no trouble about mine, but reprimanded me; so now give up your own."

The pallid prominent personage almost died of fright. Brave as he was in the
office and in the presence of inferiors generally, and although, at the sight of
his manly form and appearance, every one said, "Ugh! how much character he had!"
at this crisis, he, like many possessed of an heroic exterior, experienced such
terror, that, not without cause, he began to fear an attack of illness. He flung
his cloak hastily from his shoulders and shouted to his coachman in an unnatural
voice, "Home at full speed !" The coachman, hearing the tone which is generally
employed at critical moments and even accompanied by something much more
tangible, drew his head down between his shoulders in case of an emergency,
flourished his whip, and flew on like an arrow. In a little more than six
minutes the prominent personage was at the entrance of his own house. Pale,
thoroughly scared, and cloakless, he went home instead of to Karolina
Ivanovna's, reached his room somehow or other, and passed the night in the
direst distress; so that the next morning over their tea his daughter said, "You
are very pale to-day, papa." But papa remained silent, and said not a word to
any one of what had happened to him, where he had been, or where he had intended
to go.

This occurrence made a deep impression upon him. He even began to say: "How dare
you ? do you realise who stands before you ?" less frequently to the under-
officials, and if he did utter the words, it was only after having first learned
the bearings of the matter. But the most noteworthy point was, that from that
day forward the apparition of the dead tchinovnik ceased to be seen. Evidently
the prominent personage's cloak just fitted his shoulders; at all events, no
more instances of his dragging cloaks from people's shoulders were heard of. But
many active and apprehensive persons could by no means reassure themselves, and
asserted that the dead tchinovnik still showed himself in distant parts of the
city.

In fact, one watchman in Kolomna saw with his own eyes the apparition come from
behind a house. But being rather weak of body, he dared not arrest him, but
followed him in the dark, until, at length, the apparition looked round, paused,
and inquired, "What do you want?" at the same time showing a fist such as is
never seen on living men. The watchman said, "It's of no consequence," and
turned back instantly. But the apparition was much too tall, wore huge
moustaches, and, directing its steps apparently towards the Obukhoff bridge,
disappeared in the darkness of the night.